


"We're not so different, you and I."

by Dungeontv



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Cannibalism, Human!Alastor, Murder, demon Alastor shows up too, environmentalist mentions, just human!Alastor getting up to his usual mischief as I imagine it, perhaps even very dark to some, pretty dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27401824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dungeontv/pseuds/Dungeontv
Summary: Human Alastor indulges in one of his favourite hobbies (among others, of course, he's nothing if not nuanced): murder and cannibalism. He also, in typical gentlemanly Alastor fashion, will try to convince you - the poor reader - into thinking his way of life is perfectly agreeable; although I, as the author, am firmly assuring you now it is not. (Make sure to take heed of the warnings before reading! This is a dark and rather gory fic.)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	"We're not so different, you and I."

While this is a rather dramatic place to start, Alastor is nothing if not theatrical and, more than that, he is also punctual and here with a point to make.  
  
For that, he has allowed you a brief glimpse into his human life. Just a snippet, of course, for as much as he likes to be understood as a gentleman with an open-mind for different tastes and not a savage criminal, Alastor also enjoys the _mystery_ surrounding him and his Radio Demon title.  
  
With that settled, let us leave our current year behind and return to the 20's, where a thin and well-dressed, even with all his necessary medical rubber equipment covering said outfit, man had begun to get to work.  
  
His environment comprised of a basement. And in this basement, there is a large fish tank, tools, a metallic pull-up exercise bar, and a piece of rope. The rope penetrates a metal loop that has been fashioned into the middle of said exercise-bar, which is held up by two much longer bars that nearly touch the ceiling and sit either side vertically. An estar-stopper-knot dangles from the loop and, keeping this equipment company, there are two men.  
  
One of the men is naked and hung upside down. The other is well-dressed and standing upright.  
  
Though it was impractical, Alastor cared about appearance, especially during times such as these. His outfit was a testament to the fact he was a citizen, and an affluent one at that - a member of high society. The one facing Alastor had a thick cloth shoved deep in his mouth to prevent any sounds from coming out. Any cries for help.  
  
Crouching down, Alastor, in a fluent practiced motion, slices open his victim’s neck. His butcher’s knife, of course, starts from where the carotid artery is located, making its way across to the other side so the other can be cut through with equal precision. As soon as he’s done, his free hand lets go of the rope, the man plunging into the fish tank and an immediate spray of blood begins to fill it up, successfully avoiding staining anything around it. Alastor's wide eyes watch the man’s own with great intrigue. He saw there was fear there, but that alone was not what he was interested in. Instead, he felt fascinated by any emotion that appeared alongside it - one he decided must be regret.  
  
But _why, regret?_ He wonders as the man’s life near-instantly slips away.  
  
You may assume the most likely explanation was probably regret at running into Alastor at all but Alastor, having done this many more years than you, would fervently disagree. When one’s life is ending, he is sure, that person thinks of what matters most to them. Within seconds, the other’s hair is stained red and his eyes are covered by the never ending pouring of blood that fills up the tank, leaving Alastor without a clear view. That still made him ponder. Could it have been the lad hadn’t told someone close, like a father, just how much they meant to him before he’d come along? Or perhaps he had children at home to look after, ones that would never see him again and have to face the trauma of knowing their father had been murdered.

Regardless, the sweet, sweet ecstasy of watching terrified eyes - a bright blue, this time, one of the rarer colours - stare back up at him as they struggled to breathe, their heart pounding desperately to no avail, more and more blood spewing until their eyes eventually glazed over, no longer a consciousness being, no longer any thought left in them.

Within moments, the emotion was gone and they-- or rather, _it_ was dead.

And _he_ had done it. _He_ had the power to render other humans motionless, the control to commit society's ultimate taboo and yet still be able to innocuously remain part of it. However, he was not finished yet. Far from it. For now he had a corpse in his room, something to make use out of, to use every piece as best he could.

Alastor may have been a serial killer, but that didn't mean he wasn't an environmentalist. Decreasing waste was important for their ecosystem, after all.

Unhooked and laid on a newly cleaned table, the dead man-- or rather, as Alastor would say, no longer a man, but an identity-less bag of meat.

Perhaps, later on, he'd turn on the radio to see if the boy's appearance was talked about and read about the lad's parents and relatives sob in vain for their missing son, whilst he derived sadistic pleasure in the fact he _knew_ and they didn't. Never would, probably. Not with how good his track record was with the destruction and recycling of every body part.  
  
For what was unusable? He offered cremation, free of service.

  
  
However, the fun was not over yet. Oh no, no no _no_ , far from it. For now he had a _corpse_ in his room, a doll to play with to his heart's content, to make art out of, to use every living piece of it he could before there was little left.  
  
He may be a serial killer, but that didn't mean he wasn't an environmentalist. Decreasing waste was important for their ecosystem, after all.  
  
And so, he moved the body to his large-scale cooling unit - built himself, of course, such things weren't exactly freely available on the consumer market - and used hooks to attach and hang the body upside down to speed up the drying process.  
  
He was ahead of his time, really. Having put so much thought and research into an operation, eating up the knowledge as hungrily as he did his newly-made dinners throughout his childhood and adolescence, having known for a long time he was preparing for the day he would no longer be hunting and preparing deer for his family dinners.  
  
  
And as he left his basement, all thoughts of that lifeless body disappeared and were instead replaced with daily tasks he had to do. Such as: calling his grandmother; attending his neighbour's barbecue; giving his niece a big hug when he picked her up from school and then drove her to her parent's house, a temporary arrangement until the two weren't so busy working multiple jobs.  
  
Then, when all that was completed, he settled in large his faux-leather armchair for an evening of reading, _The Secret Garden_ by Frances Hodgson Burnett, to be precise. A children's book, but Alastor liked children's books and he especially liked this one, having developed the determination to learn to read due to his stubborn childhood wish to finish it. As this would suggest, he'd read it before, of course, but a sucker for nostalgia, especially on days like these, Alastor just couldn't help himself but to dive back in, images of his own childhood flickering past in his mind as he turned the worn pages.  
  
Then, as his old clock struck five AM, he knew it was time. He'd taken care of the man about 30 hours ago, so the corpse should be in good enough shape to harvest.

With only coffee and adrenaline keeping him up, he got to work, leaving his childhood book neatly on a side table, his old Bible Studies imprinted bookmark reminding him where he'd left off.

Of course, there was yet more preparation still, but Alastor was a busy man, and, I'm sure, so are you, the reader. If not, I'm afraid you must excuse the brevity of this tale, for as I explained earlier, Alastor is only granting us all a _snippet_ here and his patience has already been stretched thin enough to snap - both in this current moment of the story and in me, the story teller, for keeping you all so long with the mundane details of his daily life. So, let's skip the pointless fluff and get right to it, shall we?  
  
  
  
Unhooked and laid on a newly cleaned table, a pool of blood collected neatly in a bucket underneath the hooked man-- or rather, as Alastor would say, no longer a man, but an identity-less bag of meat. After all, why should he keep track of all the names of those he'd slaughtered over all his years of starting this culinary quest. Do you know all the names of the animals' of whose meat you've collected from the butcher's? Or, if not the butcher's, the hamburgers and steaks many of you globally seem to enjoy so dearly? The chickens? Their eggs? 

And for those of you out there who are vegan, don't think Alastor doesn't have a snippy remark for you lot too. Do you consider the habitat destroyed in order to lay man-made fertilizer over the vegetables and fruit they grow, plants so altered that, for example, the banana we know and eat today looks almost nothing like its original form? It has been mutated, deformed, all to suit one greedy animal's interests: the human. 

Furthermore, his demon form would go on, to really hammer the point home with all the advances in technology he's heard about: what about the crops? They too rely on fertilizer to survive, a substance developed through the use of oil, the extraction and application of which has helped contribute to threatening roughly 40% of plant species with extinction since the industrial revolution. Plant species animals rely on, including humans ourselves, many of our kind already having lost our lives lost due to unclean air, unclean water, and natural disasters which are the direct result of human-caused climate change.  
  
Topsoil so altered, without fertilizer and pesticides, crops would barely survive on it. And, just to add to your misery for Alastor's sadistic pleasure, the amount of topsoil unaffected decreased and decreased with no end in sight.

_So,_ Alastor would smugly tell those reporters who would be his mouthpiece to the public: "You criticise me and yet are hardly different from me. You gain much of your modern comforts through the suffering of other species and humans many miles away and I gained some of mine from the odd murder here or there, you see?”  
  
Ah. But we've gotten off track here because, as you _can_ clearly see, Alastor is rather protective of his personal and public persona as a moral upstanding citizen and thus likes to make it very, _very_ clear he is not a deranged monster, but just another human. However, his whims are not the sole point of this short story, so I do apologise for the delay. Let's get right back on course.

  
  


Scalpel, as clean as the same metallic table he'd re-polished, made two deep incisions, one horizontally from the man's navel to his genital region, the other across his stomach, where he intended to first remove the intestines so he could fashion them into strings for a new violin, much like they did in the old days with catgut - a gift for his brother, perhaps. Alastor enjoyed craft-making but, unfortunately, when it came to musical instruments, his talent was rather lacking. Or at the very least, he hadn't bothered much with any lessons.  
  


Now, this is where things unfortunately get rather hazy. For while his movements are precise, unlike a doctor's, they are not done with dull feelings of "well, just another day on the job", rather, Alastor finds himself brimming with emotion. Sparks of euphoria shoot up his spine with every correct move, his pupil's dilated as if he were on some kind of drug, and as he tries to slowly pull out that now-dry organ, the livestock's intestines, and finally sets them aside on the table, Alastor immediately feels the urge for a drink. The usual: scotch. His father's favourite (may that wonderful man rest in peace).  
  
He decides to take a verbal toast to his father and then carries on with the job.

But, as the hours go by, his euphoria fades into a dull buzz, tiredness eventually getting the better of him and pulling him to bed, though he knows there is still so much more to be done. For example, there is hair to stuff into cushions to give to his aunt. Bones to carve and hide into pieces of jewellery. Yes, indeed, it was enough work for a week - yet he didn't have that long, for before the latter crafts could be finished, the meat needed to be cooked and eaten while it was still fresh.  
  
Mince pies for his niece, perhaps, who always seemed to appreciate them even though it was never anywhere near Christmas. Another barbecue where this time _he_ would be hosting, watching the others eating without a care in the world, eating a nameless man like they'd eat a nameless cow.

And later, when those sausages had been prepared by hand, properly seasoned and ovened until they were just the right level of _crisp,_ that same blissful, contented smile would cross his lips - knowing his friends had partaken in that same meat, probably enjoying it just as much.

Yes, just like him.

And they, as your run of the mill humans, were just like everyone else.

“Including you,” he told the latest journalist to visit, a young man whose eyes reflected the same fear of many of Alastor’s old victims.  
  
“Including you, my good friend.”

**Author's Note:**

> ...Or so Alastor would argue. (But, trust me, don't take his word for it. That smooth-talker has led many astray with his deals and, though he wouldn't like to hear it, he is merely a con man trying to sell you a beaten down old 1920's Volkswagen Beetle, both because he wants more money than its worth and also to justify the fact he owns the same shitty car.) 
> 
> All that aside, it's funny, this started as me wanting to write an example of what I would consider gore that would be too NSFW for my discord Hazbin Hotel RP server but instead I got too into writing it and it turned into a little story I ended up wanting to publish on here. (Not sure I can link it but my server's on disboard, it's simply called Hazbin RP and has a Husk icon.)


End file.
